Tales of Pain
by Whipper
Summary: ELF, third season. Tim and Lucas talk. Dark.


Disclaimers apply.   
  


** TALES OF PAIN, **  
written by Whipper 

  
  
When I tell him that the war has begun, that we're officially at war with the Macronesian government, he slams his hand into the wall. A sickening thump that almost makes me throw up. I look at him for the longest amount of time, unable to move or act. He doesn't seem to notice, he just stares down at his feet. After what seems like forever I manage to look away. Only to see the wall. There's blood on it. From his hand.   
  
I close my eyes.   
  
"I'm fine," I hear him say. Then again, as if to convince himself as well; "I'm fine."   
  
I nod, feeling faint. Of course he's fine. I start to sway. Ohmygod. He broke his hand on the wall. He broke it. And there's blood. On the wall. All of a sudden I'm sitting on the floor with Lucas next to me. He looks at me with concern in his eyes.   
  
"You okay, Tim?"   
  
"Yes," I lie.   
  
"Good."   
  
We sit there in silence for a couple of minutes, me with my head resting against the wall and Lucas holding his hurt hand close to his chest. He has a far away look on his face and I wonder what he's thinking. But I don't ask, I really don't want to know.   
  
I feel... as if I don't know him. As if I don't know who this man-child sitting next to me is. He just broke his hand against the wall. I don't know any people that do such things. Do I?   
  
"It didn't really hurt," he suddenly whispers. "It never does hurt enough."   
  
"How much do you want it to hurt," I ask. Surprising even myself.   
  
At first I think he won't answer, then he turns around to face me again. His eyes are so dark and I feel afraid. I don't want him to answer that question. I don't want him to tell me the story behind his pain. I need him to be my Lucas. Our Lucas. Fun-loving and curious, always with a witty answer. Young... and innocent.   
  
"Enough for me to know that I'm alive. Enough to keep me sane. I don't know what else to do, Tim. I never have."   
  
It hurt to swallow. As he continues to talk I want to put my hands over my ears to shut his voice out. But I don't. I can't. After all, I'm supposed to be his friend.   
  
"Once, just before my parent's divorce, I cut myself with a razor in the arm. Nothing serious. Perhaps a little too deep for it to be healthy, that was all."   
  
I almost scream at him that there's no healthy way of cutting your arms. But something in his voice makes me think he won't believe me. So I remain quite; captured by his story.   
  
"All the blood... it scared me. I ran downstairs, calling for my mom. She was sitting in the living room, watching a show. I cried and showed her my arm. I was... prepared, you know. That she'd yell at me or start to cry. Maybe even tell my dad when he came home. But she didn't. She just looked at me... and told me that I was dripping on the floor. Destroying the carpet."   
  
My face is wet with tears. Lucas wipes them away, a curious look on his face. As if he doesn't understand the reason for my crying.   
  
"You don't have to cry, Tim. It was long time ago. I'm not a child anymore."   
  
"I know."   
  
But I can't stop the tears from falling anymore than he can stop from telling me the rest of his story.   
  
"I never showed anyone my pain again. Especially not my parents. You know, my dad would have put me on medications if he had ever found out." He sounds amused as he continues; "Maybe that would have been a good idea. I think I went crazy. At least a little. Because it was if I had... become addicted. To the pain. It's a way to survive, Tim. To make sure you never die."   
  
"You're not well," I say. "You need... you need to see a doctor."   
  
"My hand will fine," he smiles. Knowing that that's not what I meant. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to tell you... I'd like to tell you everything."   
  
"I don't mind."   
  
What's another lie?   
  
"I lived with my father for a long, long time. We moved a lot because of dad's job. I... never had any real friends. I guess that kind of makes me a loser. It's not that strange I prefer the company of computers, now is it? Only problem is that I too need intimacy. I told Dr. Westphalen that once."   
  
He laughs. A sad, sad laughter that makes me want to hit the wall. Break my hand to be able to share his pain. Make it less heavy on him.   
  
"I never had anyone but myself. And you can't really love yourself. Nobody does."   
  
"What about the...cutting? The pain?"   
  
"I wasn't like all those teenagers you here about. Except for that first time I never hurt myself to get attention from anyone. It was never a cry for help. It was just... a way to survive. I didn't really want to kill myself. You don't understand! If I don't do things like this, I'll die."   
  
"No, you won't."   
  
We won't let you die, Lucas. We might not know you as well as we used to think, you might scare me with your talk about pain and death but we still care about you. We still love you.   
  
"No? You've never had the pain build inside you, become so strong that you're afraid your heart is gonna stop beating. You've never felt pain like that... right?"   
  
"Right," I confirm. I'm a very sane person. I always have been. A little shy and always too clever, but never insane. But still, somehow, I understand. And he must know that... why else would he tell me this story?   
  
"I've hurt myself... with knifes and razors and fire... for almost eight years. That's 96 months... 384 weeks... 2688 days... and too many cuts for me to count. Too many burns and bruises and broken bones. All by my own hands." He stands up on shaky legs, walking away from me. "I must be making you sick, Tim."   
  
"You are," I answer. "But I want you to tell me everything."   
  
And I'm almost telling the truth.   
  
"I don't know what else to tell you. I..." He's silent for a long time, then he smiles to me. A brave, heartbreaking smile. "Most of the time I'm just fine, you know."   
  
"Yeah..."   
  
He sits down again, I guess he too is feeling a little weak right now. We don't say anything more though. We just sit there and I've never felt quite this tired before. I wanted for him to end the story but I guess real life isn't like that. You never get any endings just a countless amount of beginnings. I reach out for the broken soul next to me, pulling him towards me, giving him a hard hug.   
  
"It's gonna be okay," I promise not knowing how to even begin to heal him.   
  


THE END


End file.
